


Ash and Change

by suchfreshcabbage



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood (minor), Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Makeup, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 00:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14842529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchfreshcabbage/pseuds/suchfreshcabbage
Summary: Maedhros, years out of Angband, has bad coping mechanisms.(Note: I'm pretty proud of this one. However, I want to note that this deals heavily with depictions of trauma and PTSD-elements, so be advised there. I would also like to clarify again that Maedhros' course of action in response to this is neither healthy nor advised.)





	Ash and Change

It had been months since someone had touched him. Years since someone had touched him _closely_ . Ten years since Angband. And yet, it was all he that could fill his mind as he lay going to sleep. The _memory_ of when his body had a use. When it was used that way. When it could feel _like that_. Did he miss it? Did he fear it? He remembered it. And it remembered him.

He recalled, when he was young, how frightening he found the root cellar under his household. He dreaded being sent on errands to fetch jars from it. He feared it. And he hated that fear. He resolved, henceforth, to cure himself of such worry by sitting in the cellar, in the dark, for as long as he could stand, daily, until it no longer scared him.

Perhaps, he thought, he could get over his memories of being touched, by simply being touched yet again. Safely. Just as he could control the duration he spent subjecting himself to the cellar, and therefore learned not to fear it, perhaps, if he allowed himself to be had again, safely, it would not trouble him.

Maedhros, with this concept in mind, readied himself to be made presentable. He sat in front of his bedroom mirror and observed his hair. It was still cropped short, flared up in ragged directions, matted in parts. He ran his fingers through it as a makeshift comb. It did not settle. He turned his attention to his face. Scarred with thin pink lines like a slab of marble. He recalled in Valinor how, readying himself for the maiar who demanded his presence, he would paint colors around his eyes and upon his lips. Should he do the same here? It had been decades since he attempted to court an elf. Would whoever he found care? He didn’t know. Maedhros removed a small jar of wine-red powder and, with a shaking finger, smeared some across his lips. He was not yet used to decorating himself without the use of his right hand and his application was messy. His arm jolted, spreading the red in a streak down across his chin. He gazed at himself in the mirror and remarked at how similar it looked to blood dripping from his mouth.

_There were four elves in the room. Or, there used to be. There were still four. If you would call those elves. One pile of rotting bones. One mindless thing, halfway to orchood. One corpse. One of him. His master had not brought them food in weeks. Hungry. So hungry. The orc-like one, his only living companion, if it was even truly living, began to chew at the corpse. All four of them had names once. He could recall none of them. All he could process was the harsh metallic smell of blood, seeping away from the stiff body, and the wet sound of his peer devouring it. He was hungry. So hungry. Surely this dead elf could not mind if he used his flesh to survive. Surely Eru would not mind. He had to survive. He was hungry. So hungry. He allowed himself to eat alongside the orc. Blood dripped down his mouth._

Maedhros jolted back from the mirror in shock. With his left hand he clawed at his face, desperately trying to clean the red away, trying to cleanse the memory from his mind. He glanced back up at the mirror. The red was not gone. He scratched harder, until his fingers became red. Blood. He had scratched his skin. Blood dripped down his cheek, mingling with the red makeup.

He looked down at the small bag of beauty agents he had and selected a different tool. Fine black powder. Charcoal. He found it funny, almost, how often he used it in his youth. The House of the Spirit of Fire. Only fitting that they used cosmetics made in fire. What could be more lovely than decorating oneself with ashes? Eyes. It went on his eyes. Gently, he dipped a finger into the powder and then rubbed it across his eyelid. Again, too far, making a black streak across the side of his face. He liked the texture. He dipped his finger again into the powder, then another finger, and rubbed it between them. How fine. How smooth. Impulsively, he flung a handful of powder into the air, letting it sprinkle down upon him like volcanic rain, showering his hair and lap ashy blackness. He looked in the mirror again, noting the slight change in hue of his hair. He picked up another handful of the stuff and began to rub it all across his head, through his locks, saturating it in charcoal until the red barely showed. Aside from his scars and freckles, he could almost pass for Curufin or Maglor. No more red. No more Russandol. Not Maitimo anymore. Some other thing, some less noticeable Noldo.

_Long fingers pulling his hair, stroking it. “How lovely, Maitimo, how lovely. How precious it is, this hair. How lovely. How lucky you are to have it. How lucky I am to have you here.” Long fingers tightening around his hair, holding his head. “What a jewel you are, Maitimo, how precious. How special, what lovely hair. There are none quite as lovely as you, my sweet Maitimo, none have that hair.” Long fingers. All across him. His hair._

Yes. It was better as black. Nothing special about it. Between the blackened hair and the scarred skin, Maitimo was no longer here. Nothing left for long fingers to enjoy. He looked down at his hands, stained as black as his hair with the fine powder. Much like Morgoth’s. He spit on them, rubbed them together, and scrubbed off the powder. No. None of that. No.

He stood up and examined his handiwork in the mirror. He wrapped himself in a dark cotton robe he kept on the back of his chair and tied the belt around his waist.

Would his appearance be appealing enough? Surely it wouldn’t be difficult to quickly find a mate. Surely, one of the fortress’s soldiers would indulge him.

Quietly, he slunk down the halls, away from his chambers, towards where he knew guards dwelt on break. He spotted one of them, walking informally, clearly off duty. A tall, strong man. Well into maturity. He would do. Maedhros approached him.

“Please, sir?” He inquired, tapping on his shoulder. “Please sir.”

The guard turned around. His gaze stumbled upon Maedhros’ hair briefly before recognizing him. His hand, his scars, and his height were found in no other.

“Lord Maedhros?”

“No. No.”

“Lord Maedhros, is there a concern? Have orcs been spotted by the scouts? Should I ready the others?”

Maedhros hated how the guard maintained his businesslike tone. How he still regarded him as his lord. It would be better if he treated him as a nameless elf. As another slave. Not an authority. No. “Forget that I am Maedhros. I am not him tonight. I am no one. This night does not exist. I am not your Lord tonight. I am no one. You will not recall this tomorrow, yes? I am not Lord Maedhros tonight. I’m just an elf."

“Yes. Lo-, no, is there something you wish for me to call you?”

Maedhros pondered the question for a minute. Sauron would call him Maitimo. Sweet Maitimo. Precious Maitimo. The orcs would call him the same. But, in passing, he was simply _elf._ That _elf_ . They all knew which one. _Elf, kneel. Elf, keep walking._ “I’m just an elf. Just an elf.”

“What is it that you want, then?”

“Fuck me” he whined.

The guard twisted his brows in confusion. “Excuse me? Is this a test of sorts?”

“Would you like to fuck me?” Maedhros undid his belt and let the robe drop to the floor, displaying his still thin and pale body. He draped his long arms over the guard’s shoulders, letting his body get closer to him, letting the guard feel his presence. “Would you?”

The guard took a step back and surveyed his body. Despite the scarring, it was still surpassingly elegant. His hips curved in exactly the right way. His chest was smooth. His eyes begged. The guard now understood why the elf was known as Maitimo. He himself hadn’t tasted flesh in a long while either. Too many of his barrack mates had wives. This indulgence would be well appreciated. He looked upon Maedhros’ body yet again, and imagined his hands, his mouth, upon it, feeling it, feeling the elf moan and shiver below him.

Maedhros, hearing no immediate response, picked the robe up from the floor. “I apologize. If this does not interest you, I respect that.” He began pushing his left arm through the sleeve, but it was stopped by a firm grasp set upon his wrist.

“No,” came the guard’s reply. “No. I’ll fuck you. I’d like that.” He pulled Maedhros closed to him, pressing his thin body between himself and the hallway wall, feeling his warmth. “Would you like that?”

Maedhros felt some sort of thrill. He was not yet sure if it was terror or excitement. Adrenaline pumped through his body. This guard was a perfect choice of mate. Was it terror? He shook slightly. _Was_ this fear? He recalled the root cellar. Even if it was fear, he resolved to ignore it. Eventually, it would pass. Eventually he would get used to it, and this act would be no problem.

“Fuck me.” Came his reply. “And,” he added, doubting his own commitment to his plan, “do not stop. No matter what I say. Fuck me hard. Until you’re spent.” Seeing no immediate response, he repeated it. “Fuck me. _Fuck me_.” He said again, this time in a moaned whine. No matter what flavor the adrenaline in his body was, he was eager to proceed with this. “Take me,” he pleaded. He removed a jar of oil from his robe pocket and handed it to the guard. “Go lay me down somewhere. Anywhere. And fuck me.” His breathing became heavier, and he pressed his own body firmly back against the guards. He moved his left hand to the guard’s trousers and began undoing their lacing, slowly, carefully, more careful than he had been with his makeup. The guard smiled and grew harder as his pleading went on, but took no further action. Maedhros resolved to continue his begging. “Please. I’m yours. Take me, take me anywhere, do it anywhere, I can’t wait. Please. I want this.”

The guard extended his hand around to Maedhros’ bare arse and gripped it once firmly. The hand drifted down, lower, to between the elf’s thighs, and began to feel around there. Maedhros squirmed at the touch and a moan escaped his lips. He didn’t feel horror. He felt excitement. This was fine. The guard’s touch was tender. It was safe. This was fine. The guard continued fingering him, and Maedhros continued his begging.

“Fuck me already. _Fuck me_. Make me yours. Be rough with me. Fill me. Fuck me as hard as you can. Anywhere. Please. Please, now, please, please…”

The elf’s pleas were cut off by the guard pressing his mouth to him in a kiss, deep, hard. His tongue pressed into Maedhros’s mouth and explored it. Maedhros delighted in this. The guard was perfect for the task. Ambitious and aggressive, just as he needed.

Still engaged in this, the guard kept Maedhros pressed firmly against the wall with one hand and with the other loosed his cock from his trousers. He uncorked the jar of oil and sloppily smeared it across himself then across the elf’s entrance. Maedhros shivered slightly at this touch.

_Long fingers. Cold. Coated, slick, in oil. Burning oil. Thin fingers. Slick in oil. Pressed against him. He squirmed. The fingers were stronger. Thin fingers. Long fingers. Cold fingers. Inside him, prying at him. A voice. A laughter. A cold laughter._

Sauron. The oil. This procedure was too familiar. The same touch. One finger, then two. Oily fingers. He froze slightly, the excitement in his anticipation dissolving, letting way for the fear side of adrenaline, being taken over by horror. He kept this sensation to himself. He kept these words to himself. The guard didn’t need to know. He resolved not to turn back now. He needed this. He needed this to happen to him again. He wouldn’t fear it if he was used to it again. Make it normal again. Make the worries stop. Stop. Stop.

The guard, keeping his body pressed against Maedhros, lowered the two of them to the hallway’s dirty stone floor. He lifted one of Maedhros’ legs. With his fingers, again, his loosened the entrance. With his length, hard, he pressed against the entrance. And, lastly, with a thrust, he breached it.

As the guard pounded away into his body, Maedhros drifted away from the fortress. Or, well, his mind did.

_Orcs. A dirty floor. Cold floor. Stone. His leg, lifted high, stretched, hurting slightly. An orc between these legs. Pulling him. Pushing him. He felt himself become slick, either with blood or cum, he was not sure. There were many orcs. Or were there? He couldn’t count. He didn’t see them. He focused on the ceiling. Stones. Outlines of stones. Rough fingers at his throat. Stones._

It was horror. All horror. He said nothing to the guard. He did not moan. He did not arch his back as he knew he ought to. He lay there, frozen, his body scraping back and forth along the ground in pace with the guard’s rhythm. He didn’t know how long it took, how long he remained there. Cold.

Eventually, the guard came. He removed himself from Maedhros, stood up, and re-laced his trousers. “Was that good enough for you, L- elf?”

Maedhros snapped himself back to attention. Better to answer the guard. Better to not be rude. He had been so kind. He had done exactly what Maedhros wanted. “Yes. Yes, thank you. That is all.”

Maedhros picked himself up from the floor and gathered his robe. Standing, he felt wetness drip down his thigh. A shiver broke down his arms. He hated it. He scrambled back to his room, not bothering to cover himself with the robe, and sat back down in front of the mirror.

The blood on his chin had dried.

To his surprise, the coal in his hair had been worn out upon the ground, again letting his natural deep red hue shine forth. He wondered how long it had been like that.

He brushed his hand through his hair. Red hair. The hair of precious Maitimo.

Maitimo. That’s all he was. Red-haired, frightened Maitimo. Good for a quick lay and none else. He was spent in Angband, ruined in Angband, weakened in Angband.

He forced himself to continue staring in the mirror. Only that horrible, horrible elf stared back at him. Blood-stained Maedhros. Fuckable Maitimo. That’s all he was, wasn’t he? And no amount of coal could cover that, could change that. What fire, what ash, could take away his existence?

He rested his head down on the table in front of him and wept.

  
  
  
  
  
  



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